


Guinevere and Lancelot

by fleurs du mal (shinsou)



Series: cold blows the wind to my true love, and gently falls the rain [1]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Bleach Post-Chapter 686 - Death & Strawberry, Bloodplay, F/M, I Am A Salt Mine, Mild Blood, My Magnum Opus, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Smut, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:44:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8821018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinsou/pseuds/fleurs%20du%20mal
Summary: This tale the humans told of Guinevere and Lancelot caught his attention once. Sometimes it was a story of an unfaithful queen running away with her lover Lancelot, bringing a kingdom to ruin and King Arthur to his death. The Knight’s devotion to the queen was unfailing. He had no other lover, rejecting even the beautiful Elaine of Astalot, who died because her love for Lancelot was unrequited. Other times legends portrayed Guinevere as being manipulated into her affair with Lancelot, with the King being her rightful true love.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ALL ABOARD THE ANGST TRAIN! This shit (my fic? the ending?? both???) is so messed up it makes me nauseated. The fic is so heavily infused with symbolism I consider it my magnum opus - every single detail is important and there's a reason behind everything I've not said. Now, the downsides - I hope Hollow Ichigo is not too out of character and I apologize for abusing the italics. 
> 
> I read too much Annabel Lee and Arthurian legends, I listened to too much Placebo and Marilyn Manson and all the variations of Never Meant to Belong, so read to some angsty music. Please comment (please).

He always marvelled at the sensation of sneaking into Seireitei unwanted. He was never wanted. Anywhere. No one wanted him, not even his other self. Now he was just a free, broken loose fragment of a soul, a prisoner escaped his lonesome hell, a ghost, but he was more real than ever – his marble flesh and alabaster clothes seemed to glow in the dark, reflecting the moonlight, his bare feet left footprints on the road; still he was not a human, not a hollow either. He was _almost nothing_.  

Quietly, he entered her house. Darkness and sleep reigned between the walls everywhere but in her study, the faint light attracting him like a moth. She always worked late, dutiful as she was. After so many nights he knew his way through the house by heart, even if he did not have one. He bypassed the rooms of her red-haired husband and daughter. He harboured no hard feelings towards them, no feelings at all – the hatred he had left for his other self to feel; but his lips grew into a smile at the thought that he was going to steal her, to try to corrupt her again. It never lost its sweetness even after such a long time. She was the only one that mattered. The Queen.

The fact that he could never taint her fascinated him. He remembered the first time he sought her, just mere moments after he had finally freed himself. She had been quietly sitting in front of a big mirror, faintly smiling but her face was drained of blood and the firm resolve that was ever present in her eyes was gone – now they were full of melancholy. It made him remember the picture of Hisana he saw once. Her white silk kimono embroidered with cream, pale blue and lilac threads trailed behind her. When she saw him in the mirror, he felt her sword on his throat. He understood her – if he was in her place, he would be dead in an instant. He laughed when she drew blood but it did not reach his eyes. He had been captivated by her image. She was even more beautiful than he remembered, more beautiful than what the mirror showed. The crystal kanzashi in her hair moved with her every breath, like a waterfall of ice and refracted the faint sunset light into small shimmering specks that adorned her skin and glimmered in her purple eyes. He was not sure what his plan was, what he was even doing there but it all escaped his mind. Perhaps he had wanted to kidnap her, like Hades abducted Persephone, but where would he take her? He did not _belong_ anywhere. Despite the blade prodding his throat, he leaned in, mirroring that faithful night, and let their lips touch. She flinched at first, backing away but it was too late. She let her sword fall as his black blood dripped on the skin of her collarbone. He could feel his soul freeze and evaporate at the same time, as if a gush of liquid ice flowed into his mouth and travelled down his chest. He took her then for the first time, the quiet tinkle of the crystals in her hair and her soft voice echoing in his head as he stained the inside of her wedding kimono with blood.

She remained so poised, as chaste as ice, as pure as snow even after all the depravity he submitted her to, after the countless times he took her from behind, like an animal in heat, and the wicked ways in which he marked and bruised her body, how he made her taste their mixed blood. It aroused and annoyed him at the same time, made him want to take and take and take more of her, until she was as hollow as he was. Yet they would never be the same. She was the Queen and he was only a Horse, a Knight. He could help her conquer all and then he could be her humble servant, a loyal Knight to his master. His Queen. Only his.

This tale the humans told of Guinevere and Lancelot caught his attention once. Sometimes it was a story of an unfaithful queen running away with her lover Lancelot, bringing a kingdom to ruin and King Arthur to his death. The Knight’s devotion to the queen was unfailing. He had no other lover, rejecting even the beautiful Elaine of Astalot, who died because her love for Lancelot was unrequited. Other times legends portrayed Guinevere as being manipulated into her affair with Lancelot, with the King being her rightful true love. He despised that version. The King was never worthy of her, he was weak, foolish and craven, his death was expected and necessary. It was now the Knight’s turn to tear inside him.

He found her kneeling behind her desk, wearing her usual black shihakusho, her captain haori carefully hung on a stand beside her, the number XIII painted on its back. She was born to wield power. The paperwork that came along with being in charge of a division was laid on the desk in neat piles. His black and gold eyes devoured every one of her features – her soft round face with small pristine mouth and decisive purple eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, which meant her limbs were cold. He came to know every little detail about her – the way she fell asleep, her favourite weather ( _the Sun, she liked the Sun_ ), the lullaby she sang to her daughter. He knew her feet were always bare when she was not at work, even if they were cold as ice. She loved how the ground felt beneath her. She grew her hair out and now it reached her waist, contrasting beautifully with her firm voice and her plain clothes. He loved it that way, loved the feeling of her silken tresses around his arm, when his fingers clutched her hair in passion and made her arc her back as he slammed into her.

Rukia lifted up her gaze and met his ever-amused eyes. He needed no further invitation. Going to her side at once, he grabbed the brush out of her hand, throwing it away; splatters of ink stained the tatami. He could feel going hard already. The need to be close to her, to be inside of her dominated his mind. It hurt every night he touched her for the first time after a long day when it seemed like the Sun would never set, as if her skin was covered in tiny invisible ice crystals, so sharp they left scars on his fingers. This very part of a second the pain of her abscence and the euphoria of finally being able to feel her flesh underneath his palms was the final moment of building torture and the first of longing pleasure.  He captured her tiny wrists in his grasp and brought them over her head, pressing her down with his body, almost crushing her with his weight. The way she heaved underneath him, already aroused in anticipation, made him want to devour her here and now, so they could become one, forever inseparable. Moths fed on butterflies after all.

Instead, he kissed her fiercely, his tongue roaming every corner of her mouth, his teeth biting the soft flesh of her lips as they would bite a ripe fruit. She submitted and joined the dance without even remembering to stop in order to breathe. He tore the black shihakusho and revealed her bare body. He vividly remembered how he imagined taking off her pale blue dress that she wore outside of school to reveal smooth porcelain skin. It was such a temptation. On those nights, he was not the only one going mad with lust, but that weak fool would not do anything. She was a woman now and he knew that battle scars marked her flesh. She was a mother now and pregnancy had changed her, adding some fat on her hips and stomach that refused to go away. She couldn’t be more perfect. His free hand travelled all over her pale skin, grabbing and squeezing harshly enough to leave bruises. He loved marking her as his. Not her husband’s, not the King’s. Only his, as he was her Knight Errant. His mouth moved down her jawline and left love bites that grew white then red, then purple, drawing blood to the surface of her skin, the metallic taste stinging his black tongue. She never bothered to hide those. Everyone would think she got them in the training yard. Some would perhaps whisper behind her back that her husband was being too passionate, but they would all be wrong.

He freed her wrists from his grip and let her entwine her cold fingers in his hair as he dragged his teeth across her breasts, taking a hard pink nipple in his mouth. His tongue worked relentlessly as she withered beneath his touch.  He kissed and bit and licked further down her body until he reached her lower stomach. Tearing away the remains of her clothes out of the way and placing her knees over his shoulders and on his back, he lifted her pelvis up in front of his face. Rukia was already wet when he pressed his tongue flat against her folds. He heard her inhale deeply as her body shuddered. He caught one of her labia between his teeth and gently pulled, sending electricity down her spine. Her fingers yanked his hair just a little too hard, making him hiss and smile at the pain. His black tongue prodded her cavern, twisting in the most wicked way. The sounds his mouth made were more than obscene but shame was unknown to him. When he sucked on the little bud, she was undone. He smeared his fingers across her sex and licked his fingers clean demonstratively. She stared down at him as she trembled, still coming down from her orgasm, but her eyes were calm as lakes in windless weather ( _Lancelot du Lac, they called him, Lancelot of the Lake_ ), not a ripple disturbing their smooth surfaces. He knew well that she was in control even as he dominated her body.

Crawling back on top of her he positioned his pelvis between her legs. He stripped his white clothes that mirrored hers in negative and pressed their bodies together. Her fingers were still in his hair and she yanked him down to kiss her. Kiss her more, kiss her harder, kiss her deeper, kiss her until their lips bled. He despised that he knew she was hollow in a way that was much horrifying than being monstrous. He hated that he knew she was what he needed but he was not what she wanted. The thought made him wrap a hand around her jaw. He could snap her neck right here, right now, a final act to finally break Ichigo, to punish him for what could have been, what **_should_** have been and what would never ever be, to turn his slow torture into excruciating pain and rage and _hate_ , but he never would. This was never about him. This was not for revenge; this was between him and Rukia. Further more, killing her would be an act of regicide, no - deicide. She was a God of Death, his own Queen, _the_ Queen, and no matter how the stupid people played their games of chess, a pawn could never replace her. The thought of losing her was like a twisting knife in his chest. She was the only one that mattered, the one who managed to gentle the wrath and soothe the hatred, who made the rain stop. He was conceived in the unfinished July rain when they tore them apart, he was _born_ to protect her and destroy everything else.

He was achingly hard by the time he grabbed his manhood and rubbed it in her slick folds before he finally entered her. Her nails bit his back until he bled as Rukia inhaled sharp. He had to stop, his fingers clutching tightly her hips, to compose himself, to get used to her wrapped tight around him. When he moved, she eagerly met his thrusts, writhing beneath him. He loved to watch her face as he fucked her mercilessly. He didn’t do mercy. Black strands of hair stuck to her sweaty face; her eyes were open, calm, but dark like an animal’s and glazed with lust, her mouth was red and stained with blood, her breathing laboured and shallow, growing into moaning. He reached the point where he felt like losing himself, his speed increased as he aimed to hit that precise spot which would make her fall limp into his arms, unable to control herself. His hands let go of her bruised hips and entwined his fingers with hers. They were warm now, almost searing hot, the patterns she had drawn on his back felt like branding on his flesh.

“Don’t crush my soul.” He heard himself whisper into her ear with his distorted voice, almost pleading. Her hand opened under his palm, her fingers straightening and her arm trying to reach out to touch his face but he pressed it down. There was no need for sentiments. Pleasure was all that mattered now. He knew he had succeeded when her back arched, their glistening with sweat bodies sticking together. Rukia closed her eyes and bit her lip before she could scream. He wished he could hear that scream, her beautiful voice calling his name as she came. He was close too, his temples were pounding; just a few more hard thrusts until she locked her ankles behind him, pulling him deep into herself to fill her with his seed.

His lips crashed into hers for a millionth time, silencing his beastly grunts and her moans as he still moved inside of her, unable to stop the spasms. This kiss was still rough but slower, none of them strong enough to control it. When they separated, he buried his face in the crook of Rukia’s neck and inhaled deeply. She bore the scent of sweat and sex, of flowers blooming at night and winter air.

He was certain that Ichigo knew everything that he grew sick every time it happened, that he was forced to watch in pain.

That it was getting worse as the time passed by.                                

That it was now killing him.

That he still was hearing her weeping, not the silent angry tears she spilled so rarely ( _They were the defeat of the body by the heart she used to say_ ), but the soul-wrenching cry he heard once that was a blade piercing his heart and mind and made him want to die.

That it faded into her heavy breathing and the wet sounds of their kisses and he wished he was never born.

That there was never a night, which did not bring him dreams of her.

That he woke up in the dark next to Orihime nauseated, that he helplessly clutched the white enamel of the bathroom sink, water and tears dripping from his chin as resentment flowed in his veins.

                                                        And the jealousy.

                                                                        Oh, the jealousy.

                                                                                        And the pain. A pain so strong it made him forget he was alive.

That he heard her ask if he had taken his meds.

That he had not. The pills Inoue gave him could not help him.

Neither could she.

Once the Moon made the rain stop, but she pulled the sea towards her and now the King was _drowning_ in the high night-tide. Salt water and rain hurt alike. The agony he felt could not cloud his other self’s pleasure, just as his other self’s pleasure had no effect over Ichigo. He was just an observer, unable to shake the images from his head. Ichigo hated him, he hated himself every morning he woke up with his hands covered with the black dust of a butterfly’s wings. Rukia was dead, she was a ghost; it was in her nature to haunt.

Shirosaki withdrew himself from her and took her in his arms, lying next to her, their bodies bare to the cool night air, and gently brushed her marked skin with his fingers.  He could stay just a little longer, watch her rest just a little longer, count her feathery eyelashes just a little longer, just until the first morning light broke their kingdom down. Then, he had to leave her _again_ , to leave her to her husband and her daughter that looked so much like her father, but bore _his_ name. He always left and always came back, always, _always_. This universe was selenocentric and the Sun orbited the Moon. Yet again, they were never meant to belong to the same sky. But he wasn’t the Sun, he was the thousand Stars that surrounded her and one day, one day that would come soon, the Sun would drown and become extinguished and they would reign over the night and day, over heaven, earth and hell even if it meant the death of everything. Together. Forever.

**Author's Note:**

> I might write a companion drabble about RR's wedding because that new novel cover broke my heart and OH GOD THE PARALLELS IN HER CLOTHES.


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